Chapter 10
Finn
‘It’s a scratch.’ I bounce my knee, and the office chair rocks with it. ‘And we lost. That’s not a coincidence.’
It’s been four days since the match, and I’m still raging they benched me after halftime.
Charlie leans back, steepling her fingers. She has this way of watching you that makes you shrink, a bug under her collector’s pin.
‘The team has a concussion protocol for a reason, Finn. You took a significant impact.’
‘Aye, and I was ready to go back out. The doc was being a fanny.’
‘The doctor was being a doctor.’ She keeps her tone flat. ‘Your long-term health is more important than one half of one game.’
‘Tell that to the league table.’ I slump down in the seat, and barricade my chest with my forearms. This place is all glass and brick and the faint smell of stale coffee. It’s too quiet. Too clean. I need mud. I need anything other than this sterile box where my fuck-ups get dissected.
The door clicks open, and the entire atmosphere in the room shifts. Like opening the curtains to let the sun in.
Of course it’s her. Even the fucking air changes when she walks in.
Theo sweeps in with a stack of files in one arm and a tin of shortbread balanced on top.
She’s wearing a dark green dress today, one with a collar that makes her come off as tidy and untouchable.
Her hair’s pulled back, not a single strand out of place.
The polar opposite of the rain-soaked mess from the match.
And fuck me if that didn’t do something to me, knowing she gave a shit. That for one breathless minute, I wasn’t just a client or colleague. I was someone worth panicking over.
‘Morning.’ She places the files on Charlie’s desk and pops the lid on the biscuit tin. ‘Brought reinforcements.’
‘A woman after my own heart.’ Charlie beams and takes one.
‘Snack sisters,’ Theo says.
‘Fmack fifpeff’, Charlie agrees with her mouth full.
They are sweet. And also steeled professionals with shark-like instincts. I’m lucky to have them clean up my mess.
In the glass wall, I catch the stitches bisecting my eyebrow. ‘Battle scars, eh? Makes me seem brooding and mysterious.’
Theo’s gaze skims over the cut for a fraction of a second before dropping to her tablet. ‘It makes you seem like you’ve been in a fight with a stapler. Okay, so the social engagement metrics dipped by eighteen per cent.’
The numbers give her a shield to hide behind.
She looks away, but not before I see it.
A hint of softness, something that isn’t on one of her spreadsheets.
I want to poke it. I want to see what happens if I lean across this desk and trace the line of her jaw.
I want to kiss that stern, clipped drawl right off her lips until she’s breathless and clinging to me as she did in the med-bay four days back.
I shove the thought down, far below deck.
‘The interviews.’ Charlie’s voice yanks me back to the room. ‘What’s the verdict, Theo?’
Theo swipes a finger across her tablet. Her nails are painted a glossy cherry red without any dots. ‘Sentiment analysis is mixed. The Herald piece landed well enough. They framed it as a young talent under immense pressure.’
‘See? Talented,’ I chip in.
‘The Tatler profile, however, was less favourable.’ She keeps her eyes on the screen. ‘They described you as an “unhinged rogue with a knack for rampant hedonism”.’
‘I’ll take it. Sounds better than “unemployed”.’ I swipe a piece of shortbread from the tin.
Charlie leans forward, her pleasant expression gone. ‘It sounds like a risk and bad press going to happen, Finn. Which is precisely how Knox Montgomery is starting to see you.’
‘The owner?’
‘Yeah, and he’s not the only one. I’ve had word that Lord Dalcrieff is turning the screws behind the scenes.’
The biscuit sticks to the roof of my mouth. Dalcrieff. The Tory MP with a chin you could open a tin on and the fiancée I’d accidentally…entertained. ‘He’s just pissed off that his woman has a refined taste in men.’
‘He’s pissed off that you’re still on the team,’ Charlie corrects, her voice sharp as broken glass.
‘He’s been making calls. Quietly, of course.
Leaning on sponsors. Reminding people how much this reflects on the club’s values.
And let’s just say I personally don’t feel charitable towards cheating engaged people, as you might know. ’
Ah, right. Callum. That evil dick who cheated on Charlie with the TV presenter he’s now going to marry instead of her. I know she’s happy as a clam with Brodie, but that must still sting.
‘What values? Winning?’ I try for a laugh but it falls flat.
Theo’s sharp blue gaze nails me in place. ‘The value of not having your star flanker’s arse and dick plastered across the internet, probably.’
The jab is clean and surgical. Right to the bone and well deserved.
Charlie releases a measured exhale that drains the room. ‘We lost the Jessica Adair account this morning.’
I frown. ‘The tennis player?’
‘That’s the one.’ She drops her hand, her expression grim. ‘Said she couldn’t risk the “association”. The point stands, Finn. I’m taking hits for you. This scandal has wiped half the goodwill we built the first half of the season. And the press won’t drop it because, sadly, you look good naked.’
A searing spike of shame pierces my chest. It’s one thing for me to be in the shite. It’s another to take them down with me. I stare at the grain of the desk, at a tiny coffee ring near the edge. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Charlie says. ‘Be useful. Loyalty isn’t a renewable resource. It’s a choice. And I’m choosing to stick it out with you. Don’t make me regret that.’
She twists the Montblanc pen between her fingers. ‘Who filmed it?’
My head snaps up. ‘What?’
‘The video. Who put the camera in the room?’ She leans forward again. ‘It wasn’t a security feed.’
‘It wasn’t them,’ I say instantly. A gut reaction. ‘The sisters. Not a chance.’
Theo raises a sculpted eyebrow. ‘You seem awfully certain.’
‘They’ve got proper careers. One’s a barrister, the other works in finance, according to my research.’ Of course I googled them after our little orgy. ‘They don’t need this headache any more than I do.’
We’d laughed about it over hangover breakfast. How disastrous it would be if anyone found out.
Famous last words.
Charlie nods slowly, considering it. ‘I agree, it seems unlikely. The hotel did a sweep. None of their staff were involved. Or at least, none of them are talking.’ She lets the silence hang in the air.
The temperature nosedives, and the walls seem to close in.
If it wasn’t the sisters, and it wasn’t the hotel…
Who else was there? Who else knew? A name surfaces in my head.
Kit. He’d been at the chalet with us that night, holding court in the hotel bar earlier.
His face flashes through my mind – that chummy grin, the way he’d clapped me on the shoulder at the bar.
‘Finn, my boy. Always the life of the party.’
‘There was someone else.’ My voice drops. ‘Kit Lascelles-Finch. He was at the hotel and the chalet that night.’
Charlie’s stare slits to a knife-edge. ‘The baron’s son?’
‘Yeah.’ I drum my fingers against my thigh.
Theo’s typing on her tablet. ‘What’s his angle, do you know?’
‘Money? Boredom? The man’s a human bin fire with a trust fund.’ I scrub my scalp, chasing any logical thought. ‘He’s a party pal. And we’ve got history. Not all good history.’
‘Define not good,’ Charlie insists.
‘He washed out of the academy. I didn’t.’ I shrug, but there’s nothing casual about the tension scaling my neck. ‘Plus, I might have shagged his sister at his birthday party. Two years in a row.’
Theo stops typing. ‘Charming.’
‘It was mutual and consensual. And ages ago.’
‘So he has motive,’ Charlie says. ‘That’s somewhere to start.’
‘Aye, maybe. But I don’t think he’d do it. He’s a twat, but he’s kind of a pal.’ I glance at Theo. ‘You think I’m a complete disaster, don’t you?’
‘No comment.’
‘Okay.’ Charlie coughs softly, resetting the room. ‘The agenda. Theo, the Valentine’s pitch?’
Theo taps her screen, her professional mask snapping back into place. ‘The Sunday Post is interested in a “Power Couples of Scottish Sport” feature. It’s a soft-focus fluff piece. Home life, shared interests, how you support each other.’
I cough out a sound that’s only a half-laugh. ‘Our shared interests are me being a pain in the arse and her making lists about it.’
‘I can spin that,’ Theo says without missing a beat. ‘“He’s the chaos, she’s the calm. A perfect balance.” Readers love that dynamic.’
‘Do they?’ I watch the way her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip as she concentrates on the screen.
‘This isn’t a joke, Finn,’ Charlie says. ‘The fake relationship is helping. But it’s not helping enough.’
My smile falters. ‘What do you mean, not enough? We held hands in public. I bought her a coffee. Smooching and all that.’
‘The press is still circling,’ Charlie continues. ‘Leadership’s spooked. The board wants reassurance. And as I mentioned, we’re losing clients.’ She scans from me to Theo. ‘We need a bigger gesture. Something that feels undeniable.’
Theo’s fingers are poised over her tablet, but she’s gone still. ‘What kind of gesture?’
‘Okay, listen. One of the top UK lifestyle magazines wants an exclusive with the both of you,’ Charlie says, dropping the words one by one. ‘Feature piece. Big spread. The works.’
I feel a flicker of relief. ‘Right. Great. We can do that. I’m painfully photogenic, as you’ve noticed.’
Charlie gives a tight smile. ‘They’re thrilled. But they don’t just want a story. They want a home story.’
I take a bite of shortbread. The crumbs catch in my windpipe, and I cough – a dry, hacking sound that fills the suddenly silent office. A home story. My home is a revolving door of takeaway cartons and laundry I haven’t done in weeks.
Beside me, Theo turns into a statue carved from ice.